


Green Silk and Gold Lace

by Mozzarella



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bearded Dwarf Women, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Female Dori, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Overprotective Dwarves, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3262556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the guilds of Erebor have a great and epic battle to see who would dress their king's bride-to-be, and what patterns and cloths and precious gems and metals would be most suited to the hobbit heroine of Erebor. </p><p>Set during the restoration of Erebor after the Battle. Billa is a transwoman who was repressed in an overly traditional Shire, who is finally able to express herself fully as a lady in Erebor with the joys of shopping for new clothes in the markets of Dale. The cloth merchants, the weavers, the jewelers, and other craftspeople compete to see who can find the perfect look for their queen-to-be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: In which Billa Baggins is explained and Gandalf interferes in everything always

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Sparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/gifts).



> Episodal fic! Updates will vary. A series of one-shots focused on the life of Billa Baggins in Erebor during its restoration. Will include numerous OCs, mostly dwarves. Dwarf gender culture ahoy! Inspired by asparklethatisblue on tumblr and their headcanon which started it all, and by other fics which delved into dwarf gender culture, like those by Thorinsmut.

The first time Billa Baggins ever wore a dress out in public was a vivid memory. It was, for many years, what she wrongfully believed to be the last time—rife with scolding and the disgusted looks of hobbit mothers and fathers, with whose children she once played without, who did not bat an eyelash when she told them not to call her Bilbo, who treated her like the hobbit lass she was instead of the hobbit lad she appeared to be.

Ever since then, the adults of the Shire watched her warily, warning the children of her “strange ways”. They needn't have worried; the very same week, Billa had sworn off dresses, on the insistence of her father, who didn't want her friends to taunt or tease her or make her the object of their scorn. And though Billa knew that trousers were perfectly comfortable things to wear, and that she didn't need the green silk and gold lace dress like what her playmate Lobelia had to be a proper little lady, she found her friends less and less willing to play along with her anymore—reluctantly calling her Bilbo and all saying much the same thing; their parents didn't want them around somebody so odd, play-acting as somebody they were not.

It was funny, in its own way, that they should speak so when all she did was play-act—play-act as Bilbo, play-act as a hobbit lad, pretend and pretend to be exactly what she was not. She pretended for such a long time, in fact, that for a good long while, she forgot what it was to be Billa—too fearful, too practical, too dispirited in her growth to think of childish dreams of pretty dresses and long, lovely curls adorned with ribbons and flowers, of the ladylike manners she would have been so good at, of the prospect of hobbit lads courting her, the finest and most eligible bachelorette of the Shire.

After the deaths of her father and her mother, the secret and little-known presence of Billa seemed to disappear from the luxurious smial on Bagshot Row, along with the dresses her mother had given her ( _they are yours, and nobody else's, my dear heart_ ) when they'd gotten too small on her, the ribbons and trinkets of a stately hobbit maid, and all else that Billa had indulged in in the comfort and privacy of her own home, with a mother who approved of her and a father who loved her enough to unlearn the idea of a son and embrace that of a daughter. 

It did not change the fact that the moment she stepped out of her home, she could not be what she truly was—but it helped, to have a refuge in her parents.

And when that refuge was gone, passed from the world in halves, the trinkets and the dresses and the comfort they provided were locked away in old trunks and wardrobes to be forgotten, and Bilbo Baggins remained, stiff and proper and the best of gentlehobbits, winning the approval of the people of the Shire and his Baggins relations.

And if sometimes, that very same gentlehobbit took out a certain key and unlocked certain wardrobes, sometimes to stare at the aged, dusty, but whole and untouched contents—and very rarely, to stand in front of a mirror holding out dresses that still fit to a pointedly flat chest, or hold necklaces up to a too-prominent collar, nose wiggling and flaring at the dust, eyes staring blankly, deep in thought and remembering the sweet, sad words of a mother:

“ _I wish I could have helped you more, my sweet. I wish we could have found you some magic to change their minds, but I don't think any magic in the world could change the minds of silly, stubborn old hobbits set in their ways.”_

—then it was nobody's business but their own. 

Until, of course, that dratted Gandalf appeared on her doorstep.

 

* * *

 

“I'm looking for one Billa Baggins, who is meant to be residing here under the hill in Bag End. Do you know where she might be?”

This was what he had said, after a long and contrived greeting that gave Billa a headache to think about. Of course, back then, she wasn't quite all... Billa. At the time, she'd nearly dropped her pipe, mouth hanging open, and she'd vehemently denied there being such a person.

“No, no such hobbit here,” she'd said, all huffing and posturing. “You have the wrong... there is no Billa Baggins and I don't appreciate this... this joke of yours.”

“It is no joke,” Gandalf had said then, equally irate, “to be greeted by Belladonna Took's son where I expected to meet her daughter. You may not remember, but I was a frequent visitor to the Shire, and I distinctly remember a hobbit lass who had every bit of the spirit her mother had. When, then, did that spirit snuff out, that I should find you play-acting as one who you are not?”

“What business do you have here, Gandalf?” Billa had said, changing the subject quickly and keeping an even tone.

“Why my business is with Billa,” Gandalf said, his eyes narrowed. “As I am looking for somebody to share in an adventure, one I am sure she would have rather liked to go on.”

“Well it's a good thing then,” said the one known to the Shire as the respectable Bilbo Baggins, “that no such a person lives here. Adventures, pfah! Nasty, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner.”

And that was that, with a terse good morning and a slammed door—at least for a day or two.

Never let it be said that Gandalf the Grey was not a persistent fellow.

 

* * *

  
  


Another perfectly clear memory in Billa Baggins' head (and her loins, some nights) was the first time she met Thorin Oakenshield. Falling head over heels was not something she expected at her age, but life was entirely too strange for Billa to think that expectations were set in stone anymore. Billa fell in love—and it was disastrous.

She hadn't even been Billa, at the time. At least, not to them. It wasn't until Beorn's house that she found the courage to dust off the one red dress her mother had left her—the one she'd packed in a reckless, brave hurry—and wear it to dinner.

“Interesting clothing choice, lad. Or should I say lass?” Balin had said—not unkindly, without a hint of amusement, to Billa's surprise. He was smiling, yes, but the smile was that of a friend, that of shared cheer, no mockery in it, something she had not at all been expecting.

“Bilbo?” Bofur had said then, and Billa made the decision in that moment that would change her life forever.

“I haven't been entirely honest with all of you...”


	2. Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billa makes a friend and a fuss.

 

Erebor was abuzz with the news, something that made Billa sigh heavily, a put-upon expression on her face whenever one of the Company (Ori, mainly, who spent as much time in the library as she did, talking cheerily of the news from the guilds he'd gotten from Dori) told her what they'd heard from the markets that day.

The sighs got deeper and deeper until Kili (who, bless him, wasn't the brightest of Dwarrows) thought she might actually faint from how much air she lost, his hands clutching her shoulders as though she might faint—which, regardless of that _one time_ in Bag End, wasn't liable to happen, no matter how much she wished the earth would swallow her right up.

She never should have said anything. She never should have said a word. 

 

* * *

 

 

One of Billa's favourite things about Erebor—or within its vicinity, she amended, was the markets. Dale was being rebuilt in the months following the battle, the combined efforts of the Men, the Elves and the Dwarves making the work quick and efficient. The city was lively and bustling, people from Laketown moving into the sturdy homesteads built for them by the dwarves while they structured better, more beautiful homes around them, working with what they could of the ruins and then building entirely new structures from the ground up.

Menfolk from lower lands came in on boats some time during restoration, people looking for new starts, traders looking to establish ports, and merchants looking to profit—not unwelcome, under the circumstances. If there was anything the people of Laketown and the new Dale were good at, it was trade.

And it was from that strength that the markets drew their success, set up with the wooden stalls Bilbo remembered from their time in Laketown, with merchants and traders, Dwarves and Men alike.

Most of those calling from the stalls and presenting and haggling over wares were women, and Billa remembered the first time she'd ever seen dwarf women in the very marketplace, bedecked in jewellery (bedecked to Billa, perhaps, but modest on dwarves, by the way Balin described certain ornaments to her when they were in the treasury, taking stock of what they could give away and spend and trying to organize things best they could) and dressed in fine, well-fitted dresses, greeting her with lively calls of “my lady!” despite her own lacking wardrobe. At the time, she'd had nothing suitable to wear (the dresses they'd found still intact in Erebor were made for dwarf women, whose proportions were very different than hers with her hobbitish size and unwomanly lack of curves) and simply went around in belted long tunics and coats, so it pleased her to be addressed as such.

For a time, her shopping was largely practical, though she did linger longingly among the textiles and a few of the more delicate pieces displayed on velveteen cushions—luxuries which were now returning to fashion with King Thorin's generous and appropriate payment to King Bard and his people, allowing them to use currency once more instead of being forced to barter goods and food out of necessity.

It was comforting to move along the marketplace, the stalls at good height to cater to dwarves (and by extension, to a specific hobbit). She was greeted by many who recognized her as the hero of Erebor and the King's purported intended—and despite initial wariness, the merchants were especially quick to warm up to her, their clever, quick-witted and beautiful (despite being hairless around the face) queen-to-be (if their king would just _hurry up_ and _court her already—what? Everyone was thinking it_ ).

The Men of Dale were just as agreeable to her, hearing of how she gave the Arkenstone to Bard to help aid them—though they sometimes called her “Mister” or “Sir” before she patiently corrected them.

The day things changed drastically for Billa (a day she would both curse and thank the Valar for, for all that it had brought her after) was the day a Man of Dale, one of the builders passing through, asked her when he heard her being spoken to, called “Lady” by one of the dwarf merchants, “But are you not male?”

There were offended shouts from some of the dwarrows, some of the builder men gathering to shout back though they did not know what it was they were shouting for—only that they were antagonizing one of their own, a ruckus Billa had no patience for.

“Stop, stop!” she shouted, silencing the verbal conflict between some battle-ready dwarrowdams and confused but angry Dalemen.

“It's fine!” she added, nodding to the dwarrows and dams who calmed down, watching her warily, as if waiting for a go signal to take up arms if need be. Billa never believed she'd have that much power, often looking to Thorin for some support in dealing with rowdy Dwarves. But this time, she raised a hand to quiet them and then turned to the Dalemen, who were waiting patiently for an explanation.

“I, ah. I pretended to be a male,” she said slowly “for the duration of the travel. As you might know, adventuring can be a nasty business, especially when one is up against trolls and orcs and dragons and such things.”

Some of the Men looked shocked, others nodding, having heard the tale.

“So you see, sir, I am, that is, I may seem like a, ah, male, but I am in fact,” she continued, drawing herself to full height, “a lady,” she said with finality. “I'm sorry for the confusion but... well, yes, that's that.”

“I apologize for the confusion then... my lady,” the builder in question said, inclining his head respectfully with all the airs of a man who had no clue how to interact with people he believed to be of a higher station (and how far had the rumours gotten that even the Men of Dale knew of her status with Thorin and the royal line under the mountain?). “I meant no offence.”

“And no offence was taken!” Billa said loudly to the grumbling of dwarrows. Eventually, the bustling rhythm of selling and buying and dealing and trading returned, and Billa sighed, leaning against a Dwarf-sized stall wearily.

“Sorry for the fuss, my dear lady. Still, a bit rude, isn't he? To be prying in such a way?”

Billa looked up at the sharp-eyed dam who smiled at her gently. “It was an honest question,” she said, waving a hand. “Nothing at all, really. I've heard worse...” She trailed off straightening up. “But that's all in the past. Anyway. I'm sorry for loitering around.”

“It's no trouble! No trouble at all. If I may ask, though, are you looking for anything in particular? I have stones here—some precious, some simply pretty, and ribbons and cuts of fine silk for those with good tastes and a good eye,” the merchant said, winking.

“Well I don't think... that is... well now, but those are some good quality silks. Lovely for a dress,” Billa said absently, feeling the cloth between her fingers.

“A dress? Oh, of course! The quest must have robbed you of any decent garb. Afraid we're not familiar here with hobbit styles, but we've some weavers and seamstresses here just aching for new commissions, if you'd like me to tell them.”

“Yes, well, that,” Billa said, staring blankly at the silk in her hands. Her own dress. She might actually be able to have her own dress made, her own design, her own commission.

The idea was not alien to her; back when she had been Bilbo, newly orphaned and learning how to be an adult all on her own, Billa had commissioned some proper clothes—waistcoats, jackets, trousers. She had flowers embroidered into the soft silk vests, sometimes rubbing her hands over the fabric and imagining it with a skirt and some ruffles.

And as lovely as her mother's dresses were, they did not suit her. They fit her well enough, but they were not cut for one of her stature and body, too lose around the chest and too tight around the waist and shoulders. Hobbit lasses were, even the slender ones, curvy and rounded in all the right places. Billa was... well, not.

“My lady, are you alright?”

“What? Oh, yes, I... Well I suppose I'd have to go be fitted... I mean I'm not accustomed to having dresses made... not that I'm not accustomed to all this, I'm just, I've never—”

The merchant looked at her in confusion, and then gave her a compassionate look which stopped her nervous rambling.

“You know,” she said, “you sound just like my wife did when she was new to this.”

“New?” Billa repeated.

“Oh, you know. Dresses. Slips and underclothes, laces and ribbons. The jewellery was easier, she'd gotten used to me rambling about the styles of different chains and clasps all day. You wouldn't know it, if you met her now—she's really the most jovial woman you'll ever encounter, but she was so shy. So scared, at the time.”

“I'm sorry, I don't follow,” Billa said.

“My wife, she is talkhûna, just like you are. She found herself late, you know, she was newly my husband when she told me she was actually a woman. Quite a bit of fuss with her clan, they insisted it was better for her to stay a man, even if it was only pretending.”

Billa nodded, finally understanding.

“I didn't abide by it, of course,” said the merchant sharply, shaking her head. “I said to her, I said _I don't care that my husband should be my wife, and I doubt your family has any say in your life now. This is not their household, danakhbilis, and I would quite like for my spouse to be happy._ I mean, I certainly am. Her beard was always so beautiful, and nowadays she loves to do it up in ribbons and gems... absolutely stunning. Of course, she has such a bulky frames, we had to figure out how to match the cuts, myself and the Mistress—head of the seamstresses, you know, profoundly skilled with the needle and thread—but we had it in the end.”

“Sorry,” Billa said, cutting into her admittedly fascinating spiel, “but what do you mean match the cuts?”

“Oh, yes. You know, you can't just make dresses for talkhûna the way you do khabbâna! Of course, I'm no expert—the Mistress would know better than I, about these things. Ach, but I must be boring you. I'm sorry to babble.”

“Not at all,” Billa said, smiling brightly. “Hobbits do love a hearty conversation on their daily runs to the market. And making friends is never a dull thing, Miss...”

“Anarra, my lady. Daughter of Talmid and Kreida. My parents, you see, they're of equal standing, both merchants, so it's one or the other, or both.”

“Thank you, Miss Anarra,” Billa said. “If I may ask... where can I find this... Mistress, you spoke of?”

 

* * *

 

It did not take long for news (gossip) to spread about Lady Billa seeking out The Mistress—an old crone with curled fingers and a long, beak-like nose that seemed to connect to her squinting eyes, her lovely white beard in snowy white wisps braided so finely Billa couldn't help but stare.

She was the head of the seamstresses in her guild, and the tailors and weavers deferred to her experience. It was she who hummed thoughtfully as her fidgety little apprentice—a young dwarrowdam with the tiniest nose Billa had ever seen on a dwarf and the chestnut curls tufting on the top of her head falling in a queue down the back of it—took her measurements. She was reluctant to dress down for the occasion, the judgemental looks of hobbits still fresh in her mind's eye despite it being a year and a half since she'd left, never returning and only ever making contact with a letter containing her official signature and explicit instructions which outlined what would be done with her property now that she was not going to be able to return for it for the foreseeable future, the intention not to leave the horrible Sackville-Bagginses a single thing implicit in the absence of any of their names in Billa's bequeathal list.

The Mistress tutted at her, unimpressed, until she did, and the apprentice took her measurements and listed the numbers down.

“I'll be starting with the underthings,” said the Mistress, tapping her impressively sharp chin thoughtfully. “I'll wager you don't have any proper ones if what Anarra tells me is correct, that you've not had any dresses of your own before.”

Billa nodded shyly, a bit bewildered. “I didn't know there were... proper underthings.”

“Of course there are, silly girl,” the Mistress snapped, making Bilbo both chuffed and indignant, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance.

“Well I certainly wouldn't know. I'm just about as new to dwarvish customs as I am to their clothes.”

“These'll be _your_ clothes soon, nungith. You'd best learn now. I don't suppose you have anything in the style you'll want? I'm old as hills but I know too little about hobbit garb to try and fumble my way through the styles. I have pride in my craft, you know.”

“Hm, um, yes! I have a dress I was able to salvage. It's... it was my mother's,” Billa said. “I could fetch it, come back sometime?”

“Of course, of course. And no,” The Mistress added when Billa made to take out her purse. “No pay until I know you're pleased with the work! As I said, I have pride in my craft. I'll not be taking coin until I know I've made something worthy for it.”

Billa only nodded, wondering at the odd practice.

She left well alone, waiting on the word of the Mistress once she would return for fitting. She certainly did not expect the aftermath of that visit, nor the uproar it caused in the artisan districts of Erebor's outer settlements (living by Dale until builders were sure the inner kingdom was structurally sound enough for people to move in.

Not until Dori came to her, flustered, demanding why she didn't come to her if she was looking to commission clothing.

“Billa!” she whined in a flurry, “I thought we were friends! How could you go to that—that withered old hag instead of me!?”

Billa apologized, more confused than anything, until Ori explained to her later, as they were rewriting old records together, that Dori was a weaver, one of the more respected artisans of her guild back in Ered Luin, and that the weavers and the tailors had always been at odds. It was a funny thing, nothing Billa took seriously—

Until the first delivery came to the doors of Erebor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talkhûna = smith lady (slang, transwoman)  
> danakhbilis = emerald  
> khabbâna = forge lady (slang, ciswoman)  
> nungith = little flower
> 
> Each term is taken from Dwarrowscholar's khuzdul dictionary (all but the word nungith, which I made up based on his dictionary word for flower)


	3. Prelude to War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erebor is to become the battle ground of a very unusual conflict (but considering how seriously dwarves take their crafts, perhaps not so unusual)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT EXACTLY SURE WHAT I'M WRITING OR WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS BUT IN THE VERY LEAST I CAN CLAIM TO HAVE FUN DOING IT

“Oh these will look lovely in your hair—don't you think these would look lovely in her hair, _abnâmul?”_

“Of course, my dear. Oh, and look at these fingers. So square, nice and dexterous. Perfect for some rings, I think!” 

Billa laughed nervously as Anarra smiled, encouraging but not at all helpful as her wife (big, and burly, her voice sonorous and gruff, with one of the fullest beards Billa had ever seen, and frustratingly more feminine than she could manage on a good day) fussed over her, reminding her a bit of Dori and a bit of Dwalin in size and Gloin in boisterousness.

Where Anarra was a merchant, Norra (once known as Grinorr) daughter of Halorr was a jeweller, heavily decorated and noble in bearing, like a queen or a duchess in Billa's mind. She had stared a bit, when they were introduced. Anarra had said that her wife insisted on meeting her after the hubbub about the king's intended and her intention to supplement her near non-existent wardrobe (one dress was nothing at all, if not for its sentimental value, which Billa quite hotly argued when the Mistress spoke lightly of her mother's clothes).

It was, she said, to show her what to expect with her own clothes. She was sure Billa had yet to see what proper clothing looked like on talkhûna like her. She did not, however, mention Norra's wish to bestow her own gifts upon the heroine of Erebor and the king's intended in the form of a vast array of fine jewellery, an overwhelming amount that, while not at all comparable to the gold that Billa saw in Smaug's hoard, were beautifully crafted to her tastes and all meant for her to try, a number of which she was sure that if she expressed even the slightest hint of interest in would be sent after her to the mountain post-haste.

No, she did not need such luxuries, but she couldn't very well refuse a well-meant gift from a new friend and her wife, now could she?

“So you see? The cuts are in different places, and the material flares where curves are expected. Gives you a fuller figure, although there are slenderer styles as well. Made after elf women, if you like skinny,” Norra said brashly, though without the usual venom at the mention of elves that Billa had gotten used to with her dwarves. 

“Elves aren't like us,” Anarra explained. “Their men and their women don't really differ, and if they wish to take on the craft of the other, it seems nobody minds. But even the high and mighty leaf-eaters have their vanities, and some from the tailor's guild who traded with such elves were able to reference their styles and build on them, for more variety. Especially for the _curves and contours of the body_ ,” she said, her tone implying she was quoting somebody directly. Billa wasn't sure if she caught the meaning right, but her eyes widened at the implication all the same. 

“Do you mean that...” 

“Oh look, ' _umsam_ , she's blushing. My dear, when you are a merchant, you see a great many things in travel. Nothing seems strange when you've traversed the wide world,” Norra said, wrapping an arm around Anarra. 

“And yes I've met a dwarrow who's fucked an elf,” Norra added as she passed, draping one of her dresses in front of Billa as she stood before the mirror in a masterful flourish. Before Billa could sputter anything out, Norra interrupted her with a “So? What do you think?” 

Billa huffed and squinted at her own form in the mirror, superseded by the too-big dress. It was... different, indeed. Beautiful, more extravagant than Billa might wear (though done in elegant, darker colours that fit Norra's style), but she could see its undoubtedly feminine form, and the potential Billa might find in her own dresses once they came (she did not know how many she would be commissioning, but given the uproar, she expected she would be receiving quite a few anyway). 

The awe must have been evident in her face, because Norra tutted, saying “Oh, my dear. You've really never met others like you?” 

“Not in the Shire,” Billa said honestly, prickling at the pity in the dwarrowdam's voice. “Although I think if there were any women like me in the Shire, they wouldn't have been too public about it either. It doesn't matter, in the end. I don't see myself going back anytime soon.” 

_Or anytime at all,_ she didn't say. She hadn't decided yet. She missed her home, and its rolling hills and its people who she had felt comfortable with for so many years, in all other things apart from her true self—the more easygoing love of food, drink, a good pipe, and growing things permeated in the community. She would be lying if she said it had been an easy decision to stay in Erebor. Though Thorin promised her all the things she wished to have delivered from the Shire to remind her of home, it wasn't the same. It just... it wasn't. 

But she had no intention of returning to stay. She loved Erebor, and the Company, and she adored Thorin as much as he adored her. She knew reasonably that she would want to visit someday, but still, the fear of showing herself the way she was, it was ever-present. 

 

* * *

 

When she returned to Erebor, its gates wide and open while builders came and went, making sure the living quarters far below the palace proper (the highest point in Erebor, where the royal family and the nobles of the mountain resided), Billa was ambushed by Dori. Given the nature of their last meeting, she braced herself for the worst, but Dori only greeted her with a relieved expression on her unusually haggard face as she dragged Billa by the shoulders to a side passage, away from the main entrance hall. 

“Oh Billa, thank Mahal. Come on, we have to go.” 

“Dori!” Billa yelped, almost literally swept off her feet as Dori marched her down the alternate route. “Dori, what are you doing? What is going on?” 

“I tried to tell them, Billa, I really did!” Dori said, sounding repentant about something Billa was afraid to ask about. Still, she soldiered on and demanded, “Dori, stop!” 

At the sharp, somewhat shrill exclamation, Dori quickly removed her hands from the hobbit's shoulders and stepped back, looking appropriately chastised. 

“What is going on?” Billa repeated, trying to make herself taller, hands on her hips in the most disapproving stance she could achieve. 

Dori looked over her shoulder and sighed heavily. “Our guild—the weavers—well... there was a dispute, insults thrown around, both sides vicious and unyielding, and many of ours got into it with theirs—the tailors—and, oh Billa, it's such a mess!”

“What is?” Billa asked, eyes wide. 

“They're at war, Billa! And now they're gathered in the grand hall waiting to have an audience with King Thorin, about making a _tournament_ out of making you clothes!”

“A— _ **what?**_ ”

Tournament, she thought, had to be too strong a word for what Dori was describing. Yes, she knew the guilds were at odds, but heavens, they were just artisans. They wouldn't be brawling on the streets over who would make her clothes, now, would they?

But when Billa rounded the corner with Dori and got held up by a variety of dwarrows with carts full of raw material and looking as though they were ready for some exhibition she had no knowledge of, she realized just how wrong she was. 

They were, after all, dwarves. And dwarves took their crafts very, very seriously. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> abnâmul - shapely, beautiful (endearment)  
> 'umsam - greatest jewel 
> 
> (from DwarrowScholar's neo-khuzdul dictionary)


	4. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short respite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO THINGS: 
> 
> 1) I have a note at the end of this chapter about my writing which I hope ya'll will read. 
> 
> 2) THIS CHAPTER HAS NO DIRECTION WHATSOEVER, SO DON'T GO LOOKING FOR ANY. Just aimless, shameless, romantic fluff. I couldn't even end it properly. But I hope you enjoy it!

“You betrayed me.” 

“I didn't think you'd be so wounded by my decision.” 

“Ruined. Absolutely ruined. Don't think I'll be eager to wed such a... such a scoundrel after this, what with all the trouble you're causing.” 

“I hardly think a good artisan's exhibition would be considered _trouble._ We used to have them when my grandfather ruled and Erebor prospered. Trade fairs were popular right outside the doors, between our own kingdom and Dale, and even the elves would come to see what was being crafted.” 

“Did any of these fairs happen for one person alone, and at the expense of that one person's fast-crumbling dignity?” 

Thorin laughed, and Billa scowled, crossing her arms and trying very hard to be intimidating in her anger, which only served to make Thorin laugh all the harder.

“You're an absolute menace,” Billa said with a pout, though she allowed herself to be pulled over by Thorin's gentle, outstretched hand and sat down on his lap as he chuckled into her still-growing hair. 

Thorin, Billa decided, was one of the nicer parts of finally being able to live as a lady. When they had first begun their dance around each other, Billa feared that it was Bilbo that he wanted, and that her courage and eventual truth would cost her his love.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he'd asked that night at Beorn's home, and Billa bit her lip and waited for the inevitable accusation of betrayal, or perhaps a small apology where Thorin would tell her that no, he could not be with her if she was like this, and they would go their separate ways. 

She did not expect Thorin to tell her of Erebor, holding her tight as they made to sleep. She did not expect him to tell her of the laces and ribbons his sister so loved, intricate tassels adorning her hair as she near flew across the halls, fine skirts hiked up and ribbons leaving a many-coloured trail behind her. She did not expect him to tell her of the fine jewels his mother once wore in her hair, of the silks and velvets, the brocades and the intricate lace-work, the fine dresses she wore, fit for the princess that she was. She did not expect him to tell her of his grandmother, of the many jewelled beads that decorated her hair, the silver pieces woven into her dresses and the enormous, faceted stones that she wore upon her breast. Each lady of Erebor lovely in the finest of clothes made by the most skilled of artisans, worthy of their station.

She did not expect him to promise her all these things, whispering in her ear that he would make her his queen.

She  _ did  _ expect the tears that would well up from her eyes as she sobbed into her rolled up coat, but for an entirely different reason than what she got. She did not expect to be so happy, her heart so full to bursting, because  _ Thorin loved her.  _ _**Her.** _

“You're incorrigible,” she muttered when Thorin didn't even look remotely repentant, taking her fingers as if to count them and then kissing each one. 

“I believe my grandfather once held a grand tournament to see who would create my mother's wedding dress when my father was courting her. You are not the first queen-to-be to have received such a treatment. I also remember my father telling me he would do the same when the time came and I found a queen of my own. You understand I was sceptical, but I made my siblings promise to spirit me away if that ever happened.” 

“And look at what you did,” Billa muttered. “You went and fulfilled his wishes anyway.” 

“He is laughing at me from the halls of my ancestors, I know,” Thorin said. 

It warmed Billa's heart to hear him talking about his family with more ease now. She knew what it was to miss those who were gone, and how much happier their memory was with someone to share it with.

She pinched Thorin's nose in retaliation, something she'd taken to doing after Thorin mentioned her 'strange fascination' for it.

“It could cut butter, it's so sharp,” Billa had said once (admittedly drunk from Mannish ale in Laketown). 

“Do you dislike it?” 

“Quite the contrary,” Billa said between hiccups. “It's, well. It's—” She finished her sentence with a gesture, one that could be interpreted as lewd or simply incomprehensible, and laid a kiss upon the bridge of Thorin's nose, her own button one squishing the space between his eyes. 

She poked him there now, still cross, but less so knowing that this was indeed a dwarvish thing, and not some spectacle they were making of her for being... well.

For being.

She didn't mention that she expected a spectacle. It would have happened in the Shire, and why would it be any different here? Of course she knew that when she made the decision to reveal herself, that there would be no more secrets to keep, and that was exactly what she would be once they reclaimed Erebor and other dwarves started streaming in—a spectacle. The strange and funny hobbit. The hobbit looking for dresses to wear in lieu of a lifetime of coats and trousers.

She did not want to be a spectacle, but it was becoming exceedingly clear that while this was about her, it was not  _ about  _ her. And that comforted her along with Thorin's assurances that it would do the kingdom good to have a bit of measured frivolity after months of hard labour and little entertainment. 

And what better entertainment would there be than to see groups of seasoned artisan dwarrows fighting over dress styles?

As somebody who took her prize-winning tomatoes (six years running!) seriously back in the Shire, Bella could understand the appeal in proving your craft to be better than the rest.

 

* * *

 

“The other artisans with unrelated crafts will be taking part as well. It's an exhibition, after all, and they're not exempt. The bakers in particular are excited for the show, and Bombur's volunteered to taste every one of their wares, to see to the quality,” Ori said, laughing. “Not that he  _ needs  _ to, but nobody in their right mind would try to get in Bombur's way when it comes to good food.” 

“Hm, well I should go find him and ask to sign on,” Billa said. “Get something good out of this whole thing.” 

“But then your measurements will be off,” Ori said, then stopped, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “That could be one of the rounds. Show off their skill in adjustment.”

“Oh, shush,” Billa said, smacking his arm. “I've quite thinned out since the Shire, and I intend to gain back every pound I've lost since running off with you lot.” 

“I'll run it by the guild masters,” Ori said, still talking about adjustments. “I don't think they'll mind, they're rather prideful of their crafts and won't let something as little as size adjustment bother them. Bombur's at home with Bifur, you can ask him!” 

Billa was on her way down to the homesteads (not too far down, as the Company had each taken quarters in the upper regions of Erebor, where higher class dwarrows lived in large and accommodating houses, right below the royal wings) when she bumped into Bofur, who gave her an exaggerated bow, most certainly  _ not  _ drunk off his arse at elevenses. 

Of course.

“Bombur hasn't stopped talkin' 'bout his family since he heard from them a week ago. It's like Gloin all over again, and Bombur may have been quiet over the quest, but when it comes to family he'd give even me a run for my money.”

“That sounds utterly terrifying,” Billa said, smirking. “I mean, who could out-talk you, of all people?” 

Bofur tapped his finger against his chin thoughtfully, then said, “I'm just glad Gimli's already here, and Gloin doesn't need ta regale us with  _ that time Gimli picked up an axe and I knew right then he'd be a fine warrior, and I was right! _ ” 

Billa was in stitches at Bofur's impression, remembering how it was Gimli's huffing and Saris' disapproval that kept Gloin from bragging about them all hours of the day.

Gimli was a fine lad, his beard thicker than Kili's despite him being younger than even Ori. She supposed, with Gloin being the epitome of dwarvish attractiveness (apart from Bombur, whose great red beard and many children made him a bit of a legend), Gimli would be very handsome in his own right once he reached maturity.

“He'll be the most sought after dwarrow in the mountain, just you wait! He'll be breakin' hearts before long!” Gloin would exclaim, and Billa remembered looking at Bofur pointedly. 

She and Bofur shared many secrets. He was the kindest to her, the greatest friend, and she loved him very much. When they reclaimed the mountain, he spent much time comforting her while Thorin recovered. It was a rather good thing he was interested in men, otherwise Billa would have thought more of it.

One of their many shared secrets (though, she decided, anybody with eyes could see it) was Gimli's rapport and growing relationship with the elf prince, Legolas.

Oh, she supposed that if somebody asked, she'd say there was not much there yet. Not much, but not nothing. They spent more time together than Gimli liked to complain about, arguing about silly things and then just as quickly discussing that which fascinated them in great detail, forgetting the farcical fights to make way for quiet discussions, leaning into each other's space and unaware of what was going on around them.

As somebody who had seen tween lovers do just that just beneath the bushes at Bag End, and as someone who had done just the same with a lover of her own, she knew what it was she was seeing, even if they themselves had yet to catch on.

Or perhaps they already had.

In the very least, Gloin hadn't, the way he kept going on.

 

* * *

  
  


There was a bit of a stir in the cobbler's guild when they realized that they could not be part of the tournament.

Thorin had a good laugh over that too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO guys, I need help. It's pretty clear that with two jobs and my studio animation job not allowing me to bring my laptops in and out (or allowing me to use USBs for security purposes) I can't get any time to type up my fics. 
> 
> I am, however, able to WRITE a whole lot, mostly in my notebook when I'm on break. 
> 
> So here's the deal: I need somebody to help me by typing what I wrote. I'll send scans / pictures of my notebook to be transcribed into a word document. No beta work, just typing. This isn't just for this fic (though definitely this fic counts) but for all my ongoing ones, including Perennial, I do not ask to the night explanations, etc. Also kink meme fills and oneshots. 
> 
> If you guys are willing (and would like early updates of my fics), please do comment, or send me an ask at my tumblr, muchymozzarella. If you guys prefer to help with just one fic (this one, or another that you like better), that'd be fine too! 
> 
> I just need a transcriber. Thanks for being patient with me, guys!


	5. Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billa realizes dwarvish culture isn't as accepting as she'd first thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for phobia against genderfluid people. 
> 
> Nori in this chapter! Based on my conversations with asparklethatisblue on tumblr and their brilliant Nori headcanons :)
> 
> BIG BIG THANK YOU to claireyfae for transcribing this chapter! My email lied to me and I missed your message for three days before I realized you already sent the file, so sorry for the late post!

 

The festivities in the following weeks brought such life and such vibrance that Billa wondered why she ever thought it would be a bad idea. A grand market was set up on the road between Dale and Erebor, and the great tents and high tarp roofs meant that one could linger day and night, so long as they chose.

 

Billa, in the days leading up to the celebrations, found herself scurrying to and fro – for measurements and fittings, for food tastings (which she enjoyed quite a bit more than anything) for visits with Bombur's children and lovely wife. Often the hero hobbitess would be found bouncing one of the many dwarrow children on her lap as she gave the cooks instructions on how to make the crusts of their pies particularly flaky.

 

In the evenings, when she returned to the mountain from preparations in the veritable city of tents between kingdoms, the guards would greet her with nods and kindly, even enthusiastic, exclamations of “My lady”, which warmed her immensely. That, and the curling up with a sleepy Thorin, who was busy even on the best of days, was the cherry on top of the cream, and Billa fell asleep each night with a smile, convinced Erebor was the loveliest place in all of Middle Earth.

 

 

The next day had Billa taking over responsibilities for Thorin with regards to checking that everything was in order for the exposition, something she would have done _anyway_. While she spent her time in the markets, she wore a set of lovely tunics over her new underthings, a courtesy and truce by the tailors and weavers, who conceded that she certainly needed clothes that couldn't wait till the tournament to be worn.

 

From the tailors, she got tunics, trousers, and travel dresses – simple and humble things, or so they claimed, but the fine and subtle embroidery at the sleeves and neckline were much too beautiful to be called “simple”.

 

From the weavers, she received coats for the chilly weather when the sun had the mountain casting shadows over the city of booths and tents, as well as knitted gloves and scarves by Dori and Ori.

 

Even from the cobblers, she received a fascination and cute set of what they called “slippers”, which did not make her feet uncomfortable and, if nothing else, looked lovely on her, decorated with little leather flowers that nestled finely into her foot hair.

 

While she was exploring the market and receiving detailed lists from the merchants about their wares, Billa thought she spotted a familiar abundance of thick, beautiful red hair, but did not see the dwarrow she sought until the thief came up behind her, dangling her ribbon pendant in front of her face.

 

“Nori! Billa exclaimed happily, wrapping the familiar dwarf in a tight hug. Nori winked at her, and only then did Billa look down and see what the second of the Ri siblings was wearing.

 

“That's a lovely dress,” Billa said, gasping. “Are you... You never said.”

 

“Never said what?” Nori said, eyes filled with kindly mischief.

 

“That you were like me,” Billa said. “That is, that you were a woman.”

 

Nori had gone after the first month of Thorin's official kingship. Billa had heard from Dori and Ori that their _brother_ was born with wandering feet and that they never expected _him_ to stick around for too long, though _he always came back in the end,_ they said.

She found it off that they would address her as a lady but not their own kin, when she now knew how seriously dwarves took such matters.

 

“I am today”, Nori said, throwing a braid (not wearing the strange three peaks Billa was so used to) over her shoulder. “It's been a good long while since I was able to dress proper, though probably not as long as you.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” Billa said testily. “The 'today' part?”

 

Nori gave her a sly smirk. “Well I woke up feeling like a proper dam this mornin', so I thought I should dress the part. Looks like we both did.”

 

“Nori,” Bill huffed. She tried again. “Your siblings have called you a brother the whole time you've been away. I just thought...”

 

“Well, I was a brother when I left. I don't rightly expect them to know what I spend my days as when I'm away. I was a man for the most of the trip anyway, so it's refreshin' to finally feel like a dam again.”

 

“I don't understand,” Billa said, trying not to whine. “So are you a woman or a man?”

 

Nori's next words were gentle, but the mischief in them seemed to leech out as she said them. “Sometimes I'm one, sometimes I'm the other. Today, I woke a lady. Tomorrow – well, who knows? Although I usually don't change after just a day, so you might see me dressed up again.” She patted Billa's hands. “I'll see you in the mountain. Got to let the others know I'm back.” And with that, the thief was gone in a wink.

 

* * *

 

“Anarra...” Billa began uncertainly. She – being a merchant and much more experienced with the records Billa had to go over – came to visit Billa in the royal library, the two of them spending the latter half of a long and fruitful morning together.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I'd like to ask if... well, what do you call... that is, is there a Khuzdul word for one who is sometimes a man, and sometimes a woman?” Billa questioned.

 

Anarra was quiet for a short while before replying

 

“We call them manabbarul,” She said harshly. Khuzdul was a hard tongue by nature, but Billa couldn't mistake the harsh tone in which the word was spat from her friend's mouth. “Why do you ask of such, Billa?”

 

“I just... I found out a friend of mine is manabbarul. It doesn't sound as though you take too kindly to them,” Billa observed.

 

“You must understand, my lady. We dwarrows are stone. Constant in nature. All the we do, we do not do lightly. For manabbarul, their very being is as flighty as the changing winds. It it not for a dwarrow to be so faithless as to choose their nature every other day, as if its importance does not go beyond the clothing they wear.”

 

Billa was quiet at this, because Anarra's words, she reflected, were chillingly close to her own thoughts on the matter. But unlike Anarra, Billa knew what it was like to be looked down on for not being what others expected her to be. How could she think of Nori the same way the hobbits of the Shire thought of her, knowing her true nature?

 

* * *

 

“Never use that word, Billa. Especially not in front of Nori,” Dori said, moving around the room and preparing dinner much the same way Billa did when she was stressed and had to let it all out through baking.

 

“What does it mean?” Billa asked uncertainly.

 

“It means _one who continues to blow wind,_ ” Ori said. “It has a double meaning, you see. Wind, because supposedly, they're flighty, and that they are _blowing wind_ is an insult to their seriousness in their nature. It's very difficult for most dwarrows to take Nori seriously.”

 

“I don't understand it at all,” Billa said. “Nori is just... Nori. What should it matter what she feels on a given day?”

 

“That's part of the problem, really,” Dori sighed. “Nori's a thief. Not anymore, of course, but people remember certain things and cannot trust her. If not for Dwalin being there I don't even think some of the guards would have let her past the gates. Even if they didn't know about her past, dwarves can be stubborn, and set in their ways.”

 

“Stone,” Billa said, nodding. “Where is Nori now?”

 

“Getting piss drunk with Bofur, I imagine. He always had a soft spot for her.”

 

“Well perhaps I'll see her tomorrow,” Billa said, brushing imaginary dirt off her dress primly. “Would you... I mean, is there a proper word for what Nori is?”

 

“She said she found one from the Oracarni when she travelled East a few decades ago,” Ori said, smiling brightly. “She converted it to our dialect. Id-shâlak.”

 

“What does that mean?” Billa asked.

 

Ori smiled. "That which passes, rushes over stones. That which flows, which is full of life. That which changes, but retains its nature." 

 

And Billa, who had mastered riddles long before this, smiled back. "The water." 


End file.
